


like a hurricane (all hungry-eyed and weather-stained)

by blackkat



Series: Horoscope Drabbles [41]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Kings & Queens, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Rescue By Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: There's no division between the forest and the citadel.





	like a hurricane (all hungry-eyed and weather-stained)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr:
> 
> Cancer: An empire of time and woodlands. Citadels of fossilized lumber strong as any metal. Old rusted weapons jut from the grass like weeds.

There's no division between the forest and the citadel.

In the space of a breath, Obito goes from staggering through the green half-light of the timeless forest to stumbling over cobblestones, almost falling into the city more than anything. The wood of the building feels like stone beneath his fingers, but under that sense is a deeper, greener one, something familiar. Growth, and Obito can't comprehend the meeting of them for a moment. He doesn’t have time to linger over the strangeness, though; there are hoofbeats behind him, and he can hear the thunder getting closer, feel the wind snatching at his cloak and hair.

Cursing, Obito picks himself up, gets his feet under himself and throws himself forward, toward the great doors of the citadel. This place is _old_ , and time shifts strangely around him, blooming flowers and withered grasses and trees growing backwards into the earth before springing up again, but—if he has any chance at all, any hope of escaping, he’ll find it here. He _knows_ that. Madara wouldn’t have been so desperate not to let him reach the citadel if that wasn’t the case.

Just as he passes the open doors, hoofbeats on stone ring out behind him, and helpless terror and fury tangle in Obito's throat, lend speed to his feet as he runs. He passes another door, this one flanked by guards in armor of petrified wood, hears the shouts but can't stop. From up ahead is music, the sound of feasting, of laughter and loud voices. A feast, and Obito doesn’t want to put so many people in danger, but Madara is so close that Obito can hear his shout of victory, feel the storm strike with a roar. The trees around the citadel resist, like giants planting their feet before a blow, and Obito can feel the strength of them, the sheer force of their age and majesty. That spark of hope is enough to drive him on, and he ducks around a corner with the wind snatching at his cloak, trying to tangle his feet. The Great Hall is up ahead, though, the music coming clear even over the wail of the storm, and Obito sweeps a hand behind him as a great blood-red warhorse bursts into the hall, shoes throwing up sparks.

There's a twist, a breathless second where nothing happens. _Something_ ripples out, not Obito's magic, not anything close. This is just as old and firm as the citadel itself, and for a moment it _looks_ at Obito, weighing, judging, assessing. Obito feels frozen, terror coppery on his tongue, chest tight, and—

Stone doesn’t so much crack as _shift_ , and roses with inch-long thorns surge up through the gap, woody vines stringing themselves across the hall. There's a scream as the warhorse pulls up sharply, a shouted threat, but Obito doesn’t stay to taunt Madara. He stumbles forward, exhaustion from days of flight making him clumsy even as he bursts through the door of the Great Hall. The sudden shift to polished stone instead of petrified wood has him stumbling, and he trips, staggers, lands hard on his knees right before the dais as the music is startled into silence.

“Please,” he gets out, before he’s even looked up. “Madara—he’s after me, _please_ —”

There's a breath, quietly indrawn, all too audible in the hush. Then a rustle, long robes trimmed with soft fur brushing across stone. Obito lifts his head to find the king on his feet, face set in stern lines, mouth curling into a frown.

“Madara,” he says, and dark eyes rise to the door of the hall as he descends the steps. He doesn’t pass Obito, though; instead, he crouches down in front of him, dropping to one knee like there isn't a crown of silver branches and emerald leaves on his brow, and offers Obito a hand. “How far did you run, stranger?”

Obito takes the offered hand before he can think better of it, almost hisses at the thrumming, bone-deep power sleeping beneath Hashirama’s skin. “From—from Madara's court,” he manages, and Hashirama rises to his feet, pulling Obito up with him. His eyes are startlingly kind, and when Obito's legs almost buckle Hashirama wraps an arm around his waist and holds him up like he’s a fawn trying to stand for the first time.

“That’s days from here,” Hashirama says, gently surprised, and raises his head. The silken curtain of his hair drags across Obito's skin, leaving a prickling wash of power in its wake, and Obito shivers. However old the trees outside are, Hashirama is older.

“I—I have—” Obito starts, but doesn’t know how to say _I have the power Madara stole from you stitched into my soul_ without making Hashirama turn on him immediately.

He doesn’t have to, though. From here the rosebush is entirely visible, and Hashirama’s breath catches. He turns widening eyes on Obito, but before he can say anything there's a snarling crackle of fire. The rosebush goes up in flames, devoured in an instant, and the blade of a sword slices through the burning tendrils. Madara's warhorse leaps through the gap, carrying Madara right into the main hall, and he reins the stallion in with a dark, angry sound to match the storm outside.

“You have something of mine,” he tells Hashirama curtly, and in his dark armor, in his black helm crowned with red stars, he looks like something out of a nightmare. Obito jerks, wanting to run, wanting to put stone between himself and Madara, but Hashirama tightens his grip and doesn’t let go.

“Yours?” he asks, and the set of his shoulders is as steady as an old oak, unyielding to the roar of the weather. “I would think he’s his own man, Madara. Especially since he’s in my court.”

Madara scoffs, and the weight of his eyes sparks fury and fear down Obito's spine, makes him bare his teeth at the man who made him, one more bit of defiance he can scrape up from his soul. Madara smirks back, cold and cruel, and says, “Obito is a fanciful creature, given to exaggerations and untruths. He’s also my heir. Return him.”

If the words startle Hashirama, he doesn’t show it. glances down at Obito instead, and there's a question in his eyes, something just touched with mischief. Obito looks back, trying to convey agreement, and Hashirama smiles. Shifting his grip, he takes Obito's hand, tugs him up completely against his side, and kisses the pulse-point of Obito's wrist, one touch that sparks fire and silver in Obito's veins.

“I believe,” Hashirama says, “that by your laws, anyone marrying outside the borders of your kingdom forfeits all rights to lands and titles under you?”

Obito can see precisely what he intends, and his breath tangles in his throat. He grips Hashirama’s hand in return, tight and desperate, and Hashirama leans in, kisses his forehead, and it’s like the first rush of growth in a spring forest, like adrenaline but a hundred times sweeter.

“Hashirama, you wouldn’t _dare_ —” Madara starts, and his eyes burn with fury as he draws his sword.

“Obito is my consort,” Hashirama finished, unperturbed, and smiles at Madara's snarl of fury. Raises a hand, and suddenly the quiescent forest beneath his skin is living thing, an earthquake, an avalanche. It surges up and out, all around them in an instant, and time seems to _fold_. The ripple of it carries Madara backwards, the howl of the storm following in him, and in an instant he’s vanished completely.

Obito can't quite bring himself to believe it. he stares at the empty doorway, bewildered, and if his hands are shaking faintly, he thinks he can be forgiven. He’s been running for so long, and to have it _ended_ —

“Consort?” he asks, and the word cracks in his throat.

Hashirama laughs a little bashfully, and his smile is apologetic. “I couldn’t think of a better way to keep him from coming back,” he says. “Of course, you could marry anyone here, but Madara is…”

“An asshole,” Obito mutters, but he straightens, and—he feels lighter. _Brilliantly_ lighter, like chains just dropped from around his soul.

“I was going to say stubborn,” Hashirama says, and laughs. “But that too, yes.” His arm is still a solid support around Obito's waist, and he glances down at him, then up at the silent tables full of nobles and generals. Grins at Obito, cheerful but also a dare, and Obito breathes out a ragged laugh before he can help himself.

“All right,” he says softly.

Hashirama’s whole face brightens, mischief and warmth in equal measure, and he raises their clasped hands. “A summer feast and an engagement feast!” he says, loud enough to carry “We’ll celebrate both tonight!”

It’s not how Obito had imagined his flight ending, but as Hashirama draws him back up the stairs of the dais, he can't find it in himself to mind.


End file.
